Hair

January 25, 2010

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM A LIFETIME OF BLACK HAIR CARE AND A YEAR OF HAIR CARE ON A LITTLE TENDER-HEADED GIRL:

1. Don't use a comb. Use a wire-bristle brush. (combs really hurt,
believe me); hold her hair very tight near the root when you brush it,
so it won't pull on her scalp as much; take your time, and do a little
at a time; be VERY SENSITIVE to her protestations. She's not acting.
It hurts.

2. Untangle her hair ONLY on the day you wash it - leave in the
conditioner and then brush out the kinks with that wire bristle brush

3. Do "two strand twists" on wash day; (you don't even have to wash out the conditioner)... her hair can stay in those twists
for a few days, and then when you untwist it, she'll have beautiful
curls that she can wear a few more days, and then presto! it's
hair-washing day again

4. Gently finger comb her hair during the rest of the week; that way, it won't lock, and she'll look presentable

5. Get
over the feeling that it can never look frizzy or kinky or nappy -- get
her an assortment of headbands, so that you can push it back off her
face and just let it be -- -if you think it's looking too frizzy,
quickly spritz her hair, put a creamy product (like
Carol's Daughter's Hair Milk) on it, twist it, leave it for an hour,
take the twists out

6. Use a lot of de-tangler spray on the days you decide to braid it or put it in "puffs" or ponytails (remember: no comb -- wire brush!)

7. Stop
feeling miserable. Relax, and on the days she doesn't want you messing
with her hair, don't. Make that a headband day, or part it down the
middle and give her puffs. Some days, you might just pick the lint out,
rub some Hair Milk into it and put a barrette or two in the front. Done.

8. Every day, tell her how beautiful her hair is -- when it's puffy,
when it's braided, when it's just being itself. Never act exhausted by
the process. Try not to be frustrated. Make hair-washing day fun: while
twisting my daughter's hair, I let her watch a favorite movie, or we
do a sing-along. It largely works. (Of course, she still complains; I
just try to distract her)

9. Remember that your goal is simple, just not easy: to make her feel good about
her hair even if she can clearly see that yours doesn't require the
same amount of pain and work.

10. Remember that it's a process. Be both sensitive to her cries and patient with yourself.

July 09, 2008

Here's one of the the most moving and eloquent pieces I've ever read about black women and hair (something I know far too much about!).

It's by Tami at Anti Racist Parent, and it's a reminder to me that even though I've worn my hair natural for many years, I'm not totally free from the insecurity that led to my spending too much money and too many hours in salons, enduring scalp burns from harsh relaxers, and developing an unhealthy dependence on my hairdresser. I was afraid of my hair, and so I let others tell me what to do with it. That phase of my life was a tangled mess!

White adoptive moms of Ethiopian girls may have to learn how to care for their daughters' hair, but black mothers like me have a harder psychological task -- to let our daughter's hair just be.

Take a close look and you'll see that her hair looks clean and natural and in the throes of growing -- i.e., healthy. The child's hair is being allowed to follow its natural curl pattern. But to the prejudiced and over-sensitive eye -- that of most black women -- her hair doesn't look "right". Yes I've seen biracial girls' hair that was so unkempt I wanted to confront their mothers on the street. And yes, I admit that there's some subtext at play here as well: You, white woman who chose to have a baby by a black man (or adopt a black child), should care enough about our culture to learn how to properly care for your black daughter's hair."

Sometimes, the woman really is clueless, or frustrated by the work a black girl's hair requires, or unnerved by her daughter's tears of pain when she attempts to comb it. Sometimes, she is in denial.

But in this case, it's obvious that The Black Snob has an ax to grind and an easy target to grind it upon. Never mind what's in Angelina Jolie's heart. And never mind that too few African Americans are taking up the charge to adopt some of the five million orphans in Ethiopia. So much easier to make fun of someone who did step up.

Few things have moved me more than witnessing the white adoptive families I met in Ethiopia. I'm awed by their bravery and willingness to venture into an unknown world -- too often a hostile, judgmental one -- in an effort to simply love a child and give her a home. Some of them are naïve, I'm sure, about what that life will be like, and what their children will pine for despite their best intentions. This is what the blogger is really doing -- expressing racial umbrage at Zahara's loss of a black world. But what's the alternative? Once you've seen the street children of Addis Ababa, once you've seen the faces of little ones left behind at an orphanage, once you've seen the desperate lives of birth families, you know that a safe and loving home is far more important to an Ethiopian orphan than how her adoptive mother styles her hair.

May 03, 2008

We were hosting dinner for our neighbors. The wife said, Oh by the way, our friends just adopted a little girl from Ethiopia. And she's willful! The girl won't let her mother comb her hair. Won't let her touch it.

My heart flipped.

I understand what it's like to be a little black girl who doesn't want anyone to touch her hair, to hurt her with an unsympathetic comb. I instinctively wanted to help that little girl. Yes, I admit it, I thought that maybe I could understand her hair trauma in ways her white mother could not.

But after our friends left, and my heart had yet to correct itself, I realized I didn't want to help that little girl. I wanted to help my own.

I wanted to adopt. It had to be a girl. And it had to be Ethiopia. Because, first and foremost, as an Ethiopian child, she would have hair like mine -- long and unruly and self-defining.

That was a year and a half ago. We began the process. We went to meetings and talked to other adoptive parents and filled out forms and repeatedly met with our social worker. We got fingerprinted and sat through workshops and submitted a slew of documents. We waited. We got a referral. We were sent her picture. She was beautiful!

And bald.

So began my process of reconciling fantasy and reality in the combustible world of adopting. So began the deeper understanding of myself, who I am in relation to what my features say about me.

Today marks the first-month anniversary of life with my new daughter.

I want to chronicle the experience -- not so much the first English words or funny comments or cute moments or milestones reached (ok, there'll be some of that). I want to explore what it means to adopt an African child as an African American; I want to connect with trans-racial adoptive parents who seek candid dialogue with someone like me -- without reservations or worries; I want to create a space where other adoptive parents of Ethiopian children can come, be part of a community.

Mostly, I want to chronicle how much I'll surely grow in the coming days and weeks and months -- right alongside my daughter's hair.